


Accountability

by xkidiot



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: And this gets??? dark?? so be safe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Look this is generally just, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Petey deserves love alright, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, also, and Tony doesn't know how to deal with emotions?? But he's doing his best, and non-graphic depiction of suicide, and our boy has Issues Issues, mentions of domestic assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20660033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xkidiot/pseuds/xkidiot
Summary: Local hero struggles with loss, an old friend that keeps showing up in new waysorThe first time Peter loses someone on the job





	Accountability

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: minor character death by suicide, vague descriptions of self-harm, mentions of past domestic abuse, and vivid description of panic attacks. Please be safe and only read what you're comfortable with. The portrayal of abuse is based solely on my own experiences with the warning signs and red flags, and should not be used as a baseline for identifying abusive behavior, which comes in many different shapes and sizes. If you are suffering from abuse or are considering self-harm or suicide, please reach out for help at one of the hotlines linked below. Take care of yourself. 
> 
> https://togetherweare-strong.tumblr.com/helpline

It was a stinging sensation on the back of Peter's neck that pushed it all into motion.

He supposed it was about time for a disaster, given that the night had been going so well. The end of the day's patrol was approaching as the clock inched closer to midnight (_yes_, his curfew was a total Cinderella reference, because May was _ that _ dramatic), and so far he had stopped two muggings, broken up a fight in a department-store parking lot, and helped a drunken woman find her way home. It was about as eventful as it got, since the whole fiasco with the Vulture, and though he was itching to make a bigger difference, Peter was relieved that the last 6 months had allowed him time to adjust. 

“Anything else for tonight, Karen?” He asked, peeling up the mask enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

He was perched on the roof of an apartment building near the East River, getting ready to call it a night, when his senses started acting up. The hair on his arms abruptly stood straight, his brow furrowing in anticipation. Peter’s vision narrowed along the river line, stopping at the Throgs Neck Bridge when the heightened focus became painful and sharp. His senses always tended to be more dramatic when sentiment was involved, amplifying every emotional response to be 20 times louder than normal. Carefully standing from the roof and studying the darkened outline of the bridge, he understood why. 

The AI’s responded quietly as he tugged the mask back down,  
_ “My scanners haven’t detected any emergencies in the immediate vicinity.” _

He worried his lip between his teeth and stretched languidly in the suit, shaking his head with a sigh. 

“Yeah, well, not all emergencies are on police scanners. And, whatever, I’m a worrier, so let’s do this.” 

He was already moving, latching webs to the building parallel and swinging by the time he could make out a dark figure pacing beside a parked car in the farthest lane of the empty bridge. It was an uncharacteristically quiet night for this part of the city, leaving the stretch that the person occupied barren, save for the occasional blare of a passing car's headlights. Peter was thankful for the solitude as he got closer, adjusting his web canisters while he struck a graceful landing at the entrance of the bridge. The shadowed person, who appeared to be a small woman in a heavy sweatshirt, scrambled up at the sight of him and turned her back to the railing of the bridge. She scuttled further away with each hesitant step he took, skittish and vigilant of his every action.

Another foot forward, one foot back.

It's not that he wasn't used to weird treatment as Spiderman- he was, if the misplaced vigilante worship or community awe was anything to go by- he just wasn't used to seeing fear. Criminals were scared of him, sometimes, sure, but not like this. No, it wasn't shaking-hands-and-sunken-eyes-terror. It wasn't a reddened mess of guilt and hatred, either. He got annoyance, disgruntled attitudes, cursing, whatever, but not... not _ this _. 

Foot forward, foot back. 

Once he was within shouting distance, his enhanced hearing picked up the sound of her frantic heartbeat, scared and defensive. The phrase, 'innocent men don't run' didn't seem very applicable here, not when Peter's hands were starting to sweat under the material of the suit, and he choked down the urge to ask Karen to contact authorities. He was Spiderman, after all, and Spiderman could handle one flighty civilian. Right? 

Forward, back. 

She'd hit the railing now, and wasted no time in crawling up onto the ledge, glancing warily behind her all the while. He froze, raising his hands in surrender. 

"Hey- wait, it's alright. I'm not gonna hurt you." He soothed, flicking his eyes to the car to note the license plate. 

"Karen, get a picture of that." He whispered to the AI, comforted by the hushed response,_ "On it." _

The woman was still placed delicately on the ledge, eyeing him suspiciously but letting out a breath nonetheless. 

"I know." She nodded, dropping her stare to the river below and turning to swing her legs over the side of the railing. 

"Woah, h-hey, what are you doing?" He was reluctant to get closer, not wanting to scare her into moving any nearer to the drop, but she had stopped paying attention to him. Her stare was locked solidly on the water, the cold current of the Long Island Sound pulsing 142 feet below. Peter was about 20 minutes outside of his usual borough, just pushing outside of Queens, and in a fleeting moment, he was filled with leaden dread at being so far from familiarity.

"What does it look like?" She mused quietly, all emotions gone from her voice. She looked fragile against the bruised skyline, black hair pulled into neat cornrows, a vacancy in her eyes that hadn't been so prominent mere moments before. 

Peter paused, unsure of what to do. Was he... was he really supposed to talk her down? What did a hero do in this situation? Where did he even _ start?_

"Can I sit with you?" He asked, willing his voice to be as gentle as possible. She nodded almost imperceptibly, twisting her hands in the oversized sweater sleeves and fidgeting with the frayed ends. 

He climbed onto the ledge and relaxed his legs over the side, leaving a foot or so of distance between the two. The back of his mind churned with more trivial matters- spanish homework, movie plans with Ned for the weekend, an invitation to meet up with a few of the other vigilantes in New York that had begrudgingly named him their ‘coworker’, the next lab day with Mr. Stark- impulses to _ distract _ and _ avoid _ and _ bury_. 

"You're the spider-guy." She muttered, more to the air than to him. He didn't bother correcting the name. 

"Yeah." He kicked his legs back and forth, turning to look at her. 

Her resolve may have been hardened, but the expression on her face certainly wasn't. Her eyes were dark and watery, straining to look out over the river as though they were desperate to take in everything they could. She let go of her sleeves, balling her hands into tightly clenched fists. 

"You... you help people," She started, slowly, her eyebrows drawing furrowed and skeptical, "Can you help me?" 

He nodded, if a bit too enthusiastically, turning his torso to face her. Matted curls of hair pressed uncomfortably into his scalp under the mask, and he resisted the urge to fidget with the material. 

"Yeah, yeah, of course." 

She sniffed, dragging a hand across her cheek to wipe away a tear that had spilled over. In her movement, Peter got a view of a ghastly greenish-yellow bruise that adorned the side of her neck, trailing down below the neckline of the sweater as it faded into sickly purples and blues. His stomach turned, and he had an inkling as to why she was wearing such baggy clothing. 

"What's your name?" He asked. 

"What's yours?" She countered. 

He quieted, looking to his lap. 

"You can call me...hm.." She trailed off, glancing at their surroundings, then laughed dryly. It was a chuckle void of humor and filled with something a lot heavier. "Bridget. You can call me Bridget."

Peter hummed at the pun and kicked his legs again. 

"Alright, then, Bridget. How can I help?" 

She hesitated. 

"Can you deliver a message for me?" 

His eyes narrowed under the mask. 

"Any reason you can't deliver it yourself?" 

A pause. 

"A lot of reasons, actually." 

He beckoned to her neck, his voice suddenly sounding a lot younger than he'd have liked. 

"That one of them?" 

She frowned and a fight broke out in her eyes, avoiding his stare.

"Yeah, I guess."

He tilted his head and twitched a bit. 

Dealing with the emotion was always tricky. He'd been to therapy, for a few years after his parents died; he generally remembered how his therapist used to put up a calm face and a supportive stare. He knew some basic breathing exercises and coping mechanisms, and he'd had the 'express-your-feelings' talk a few too many times. Those skills were seldom reflected in his life, though, now that the spider-bite enhanced his instincts and Karen was programmed to follow through the steps of a panic protocol if the situation called for it. It was exceptionally rare for the comfort messages and methods he learned as a kid to bleed into his spider-time. Sure, he'd calmed Mr. Stark down from a panic attack once- it hadn't been full-blown, but it was overstimulating nonetheless, and he had felt completely out of his depth as his mentor maintained a vice-like grip on his wrist and counted heartbeats under Peter's instruction- but it's not like that was a shining accomplishment. Mr. Stark had thanked him quietly and the two had both awkwardly moved on, skirting around the issue and pretending it didn't happen for a few weeks until everything was back to normal.

That's not to say that Peter was any stranger to experiencing panic attacks, either. He was intimately familiar with hyperventilation as though it were a fluid part of him, extensive and boundless inside the rigid form of a 15-year-old boy who'd suffered the loss of three parental figures in one condensed lifetime. Aunt May had taught him the medical jargon behind it all, answering his gasped questions with hushing and numb circles traced on his back. The tiled floor of the boy's locker room at school had given him a reluctant amenity in its cold touch, one that grounded him and kept his consciousness from projecting across the room when overstimulation reared its ugly head. Hell, even Flash Thompson had found him shaking in the abandoned school parking lot, one rainy day a few weeks after Ben's death. The other boy, as harsh and malevolent as he could often be, had sat with him in the rain, allowing Peter to grasp his hand in support until his breathing evened out.

_ (All-encompassing sobs wracked Peter's body, and Flash quietly admitted that he had episodes like that too, sometimes, and, "Just breathe, Parker, that's it." His hand squeezed Peter's, and "Come on, Penis, I know you got another breath in you. Count 'em, it helps a bit. You're gonna be alright." Both of them knew better than to speak of it again, covering the unacknowledged experience with Flash's occasional hurtful comment or threat, and Peter's subtle nod when the 'bully' facade fell away on a particularly bad day and Flash really just needed to talk to someone for a bit. The school bathroom offered more privacy than one would think, and both boys knew that if they sat on the floor of separate stalls and Flash happened to talk, and Peter happened to listen, then they could just call it an overheard confession and neither of them had to deal with the emotional intimacy part.) _

The last-resort mentality wasn't foreign, either. The months following Ben's death, then the loneliness and radio silence after Mr. Stark's broken return from Germany... both had been harder than Peter would've liked to admit. He didn't always deal with internal struggle in the healthiest ways. If he couldn't handle his own, how could he handle someone else's? 

Bridget's crushed stare- cloudy and somber- gave Peter the impression that no matter what coping strategy he employed to make it better _ ("Fix it, fix it, fix it," _ his instincts begged, _ "Help, she needs help!") _, she'd be more familiar with the routine than he was. Even so, it was motivator enough for Peter to place his gloved hand over hers, lightly patting her knuckles in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. 

Clearing his throat, he offered, 

"I'm not one for murder, but if someone's hurting you, I wouldn't be opposed to kicking their ass."

She laughed bitterly again, a cold wind tumbling the braids of the cornrows over her shoulder, exposed by the oversized sweatshirt. Another callous bruise decorated the displayed skin. 

"Wouldn't do any good. Bastard would just take it out on someone else." 

Peter cringed at the hard language and clasped her hand a little tighter, to show he was listening. She clutched it back. 

"You know," She mumbled, another tear dribbling down her chin, "He used to tell me we'd move somewhere pretty. Lots of greenery. Vermont, we were thinking. I wanted to get away from the city,” she sniffled, "Maybe have a kid or two. I was raised in the Bronx, and this is what I've always known. It's so..." She trailed off, her brows scrunching together in frustration. 

"Loud." Peter supplied, and she nodded. 

"_Yeah _. Loud. And I guess I thought, for a while, he could be my quiet. You know?" 

Peter didn't know, but he bowed his head anyways. She gripped his hand tighter as she continued, her voice growing watery, "Meeting him- it was... it was like coming home. He was so kind, and considerate,” she shook her head, releasing his hand to wrap her arms around herself, "Until I woke up one day, and realized it hadn't been like that for a long time." 

Peter stayed silent, allowing her the room to speak. May had always told him he was a good listener. Sitting on the ledge of that bridge, though, he didn't feel like one. 

"You don't realize how deep you are until you can't get out." She turned to him, her eyes pleading as if begging him to understand. "You don't see it- it's like you're- you're fucking _ blind_, and you just keep defending him, even as h-he-" She cut herself off on a choked sob, and Peter closed the space between them to wrap an arm around her shoulder. He made sure to keep the hold loose, in case she wanted space, but gave her the option to seek out touch. She leaned into him. 

"I'm gonna die." She whispered, and Peter felt the cold wash of ice in his bones. 

"No-" He tried to reassure, but she shook her head, adamant. 

"I mean it- _ really_. I'm going to die, and I'm not saying that as a- a _ guilt _ thing, or in fear, or whatever. I mean _ I'm not going to survive this_. I know that, and I'm okay with it. I've already tidied up the loose ends; I don't have much money left, but it'll all go to my mom. I can't do it anymore- I don't want to. I've made my peace with it." 

Peter shook his head furiously, and though he was so many feet above the water, he still felt like he was drowning.

"You don't have to- there's always a way out. Bridget, _ please._" 

She turned to him, smiling softly. It was wistful and sad, like all the other expressions he had seen on her face, and in a terrifying burst of realization, he feared he'd never get the chance to see her features light up with something that wasn't tinged in pain. 

"My message. It's for my mom. She's a patient at Bronx Psychiatric, on Waters Place." She deflected, leaning out of his embrace and facing the river. 

"I'm sure she'd rather hear it from her daughter." Peter insisted. 

"How would you know?" She snapped suddenly, rounding on him with a tortured look, face contorted in anger. "Her dementia is so bad she wouldn't recognize me. You don't know me. I don't know _ you _ either." She was fiery, shaking like a leaf, and her upper body pitched forward towards the edge as she swayed. 

Peter was jumpy now, and Karen was desperately trying to calm him with reminders to control his breathing, _ "Peter, you need to slow down, you're going to panic." _

"There's nothing for me here." Bridget insisted, shaking her head and seething. "I don't have a degree, no job- _ nothing_. You don't get it. I don't know you." 

His heartbeat. Elevated.

Sweat. Beading on the back of his neck. 

The stinging in his legs. Back and enraged.

That wasn't his priority, though. Bridget was his priority. Without sparing a thought, Peter impulsively ripped off the mask, giving the girl a view of wild eyes that belonged to a heaving teenage boy. 

"Wait, wait," He prayed, hand shooting out to steady her. She teetered slightly, then paused in confusion, eyes widening comically at his face. 

"You- _ what_? You're a kid. _ God_, you're a _ kid_, how old are you? _ Jesus _\- why are you trusting me with this?" 

Her fingernails dug into the skin of his palm, leaving half-crescents in their wake. Peter didn't mind. He would heal. She wouldn't. 

His tongue went dry in his mouth, and he struggled to form an explanation that went beyond 'you were going to jump and I got scared'. 

"I needed you to see," His eyes bore into hers, dark brown against pitch black, "I'm real, too. Just like you. And I don't know you, you're _ right_, but you know me. I promise that you know me. I'm the guy that's gonna help you, remember? Spiderman. Peter, actually. Now, you know me." 

Her eyes glistened with tears again, surfing between disbelief and doubt. For a flickering moment, a purely joyful and immense moment, she landed on hope. 

Peter loosened his grip on her arms, just for a second, but he had been too hasty. Her gaze fell on his boyish blush, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, and youth glowing in his breath. At this, her eyes hardened with resolve. The corners of her mouth, the smallest tell in the world, turned down just slightly, and Peter knew then that he had lost her. 

"My mother. Tanya Jensen. Tell her..." Bridget hesitated, the wistful smile returning, resignation in her voice. Peter implored, grappling with anything he could, trying to force words out of his mouth. 

"Please, Bridget, there's help available. There's therapy, medicine- we can get you out of there. Away from him. I promise, you just have to trust me-" 

"Tell her that the moon says hello." 

Peter gulped, swallowing down the lump in his throat. His eyes stung, and his jaw locked. 

"Promise me, Peter," Bridget asserted, "Promise me you'll tell her." He trembled, and this wasn't _ fair_, he thought, that she was in pain and yet _ he _ was the one crying and tongue-tied.

"Bridget, _ please_, I can get you somewhere safe, we'll fix this together-" 

She stood, then, her hands curled into fists as she raised her voice, shouting at him.

"Promise me!" 

He sobbed, bleak, and nodded grimly, silent tears marching down his cheeks. 

_ “Peter,” _ Karen murmured, hidden somewhere under layers of trepidation and clouded judgement, _ “Should I initiate panic protocol?” _

"I promise!" He blurted, his expression gaping and his features contorted in something akin to grief. 

That wasn't permission for Bridget to jump, not at all- but she did anyway. Peter reacted on instinct, urging through the molasses of emotion that tied him up and forced his movements to be sluggish and weary. He shot a web at the support beam behind him, twisting with all his strength to reach over the ledge and shoot one at her falling form. By the time he had his arm aimed and ready to shoot, though, she was isolated beneath the current with a deafening splash. 

\--- 

If the fall hadn't killed her, the temperature of the water would have. Peter's body registered the frigid nature of the East River with a maniacal shout, flooding his open mouth with the dirtied liquid before he got his bearings. His mask was abandoned on the ledge still, so Peter had no way to call for rescue. After all, he was supposed to be the one _ doing _ the whole rescuing-thing. 

Apparently, jumping in after someone who didn't plan on surviving the trip was a bad idea. He had forgotten, briefly, that spiders can't thermoregulate. Figures. 

His vision was blurry and fish-eyed, bulging in the wrong places and accenting the thunder of his pulse with disorienting nausea. His head cleared the surface with a particularly strong kick of his feet, but the current pulled him below just as fast, dragging his weight farther down. He kicked again, _ better_, _ come on, Spider-man_, come on, _ Peter_, expelling the water from his throat with brutal coughs, before hysterically swishing his head around in search of Bridget.

Nothing. 

The river was as stoic and uncaring as could be, as though Peter hadn't just watched it swallow up Bridget's body with a littered gasp and chuck the remains up to wishful thinking. 

\--- 

Half an hour passed before Peter gave up the search and numbed himself to the chilled night-time air, shooting a web up to the underbelly of the bridge with his (thankfully waterproofed) wrist canister. He crawled up the side to the ledge, capturing his unattended mask with shivering and wrinkled fingers, trudging soggily onto the cemented road of the bridge. As much as his worn limbs screamed for relaxation, Peter refused, clumsily yanking the mask over his soaked face and coughing wails into the silence of the fabric.

Karen chided him kindly,

_ "Scanning for injury. You're expressing symptoms of a mild concussion. Other bodily trauma includes a sprained left wrist, multiple bruises and contusions, and a high likelihood of contracting pneumonia. I recommend you see a medical professional. Would you like me to call Mr. Stark?" _

"N-no," Peter stuttered, teeth chattering wetly, "I want to go home." 

_ "Peter, you are experiencing moderate to severe emotional distress. I highly suggest-" _

"Karen, m-mute, and t-turn on the heater." 

\---

Peter had always liked his room at the apartment, as small as it was compared to the room Mr. Stark had set up for him in the tower. It was warm and lived-in, cluttered with awards, legos, dirty clothes, and plenty of avengers merchandise he'd vehemently deny ever purchasing. 

The comfort of the familiar space was highly accosted as Peter collapsed onto the bottom bunk of his bed, hitting the spider emblem on his chest and wriggling urgently out of the suit. He was itching to be free of it, the feeling of the tight material over his body too constricting, suffocating him painfully. His fingers buzzed obnoxiously and dizziness hit him without warning, sending the room spinning. He kicked the suit to the floor, peeling off the mask and dropping it on top, before taking a moment to sit up and grip the ladder that led to the top bunk for stability. 

He _ hated _ giving up. There was the finality of losing, sure, but stronger was the sensation of dread- knowing that he failed to save Bridget's life. That had never happened before, not as Spiderman. 

He was too young when his parents died to really remember them beyond the blank feeling of _ warm_, but Ben was a fully conscious and gruesome abandonment. He had felt his uncle's life slip away beneath his palms, soaked in blood, trembling in guilt.

Bridget's death was more detached. He didn't lose a grip on her hands, dropping her freely into the East River. He hadn't pushed her off the ledge, shouting curses after her. He had simply been too slow, and now she was paying the price. 

Peter's hands shook violently as he pulled on his wet hair, breath shoving out of his lungs with the force of an anvil on his chest. 

_ Breathe, Peter, one, two, three- _

And who was he to judge, anyway? Had he not also experienced bleak nights on the bathroom floor, knowing that a bottle of pills wouldn't so much as leave a dent in his enhanced metabolism, but guiltily wondering _'why not' _ nonetheless? The self-doubt, surely, was an indicator, always _ "you aren't enough"_, and _ "waste"_, _ "putrid"_, _ "vile"_, _ "freak"_. 

_ Come on, you know how to do this, Peter, breathe in for a count of six, hold for eight, out for four. _

The thing is, the rhythm wasn't coming as easy as it should have, and it was _ his fault, his fault, his fault_, and a tingling agitation in his fingers that came from lack of oxygen was running rampant through his veins. A voice, curbed and faint, mumbled to call for help. 

In staccato movements, Peter worked up the strength to push shaking fingers in the direction of his cracked cell-phone, messing up on the passcode twice before finally unlocking it. 

_ One, two, three, four, five, six. _

"Come on, come on," He whimpered, head swimming with each movement, "Hold for eight." 

_ One, two, three, four, five, six, seven- _

"Hey, kiddo- _ boy_, am I glad you called. Listen, I'm elbow-deep in coding for your AI and I need the suit. Happy's been on my ass to install some kind of calendar system so you'll quit forgetting when he's picking you up from your little nerd school. He's really not a fan of being kept waiting. Honestly, I'm not digging it, but he gets this little look on his face, all scrunched up- not really 'kicked-puppy'-esque but something along those lines. Puppy with heart disease, maybe? You know the one I'm talking about? Anyways, patience is not easy for him, I'm telling you."

He hadn't noticed that his fingers had instinctively gone to Mr. Stark's contact information, and that was a whole lot to unpack, but it would have to wait, because- 

"Pete, you okay? Awfully quiet there, kid, you're usually talking my ear off by now." 

"H-hey Mr. Stark, sorry to- uh- interrupt your programming," He stammered, _ eight, let go, one, two, three, four_.

"Not a problem; it's about time for a dinner break anyway." There's a pause, then, "Or breakfast, I guess. What's up? Isn't it past your bedtime?" 

Peter could hear shuffling on the other end of the line, likely Mr. Stark pulling up his vitals. "You're not in the suit. Everything okay?" 

The two had gotten closer since the vulture accident, barring various sporadic car rides with Happy to the compound upstate, but _ this… _ this was more complicated than messing around in the lab every other week. Mr. Stark couldn’t solve this with an uncomfortable cough and a pat on the back. A cheerful “nice work, kid” wouldn’t do it. Peter needed something concrete, solid, _ comforting_, but who was _ he _ to hope for- or worse, _ expect- _ that from the celebrity genius? He was just a lonely kid from Queens, and not even the occasional after-lab movie night with Mr. Stark would change that. 

The teen quieted- _ one, two, three, four _\- until, 

"Yeah, or... no, I mean, I'm n-not sure. I don't know. I'm okay, this is stupid, look-" 

"No, no, don't do the Peter thing-"

"W-what Peter thing?" 

"You know, the one where you backtrack as soon as shit gets heavy-" 

"I d-don't do that-" 

"Uh, yeah-huh you do. Anyways, _ don't_. What's wrong? Am I about to get a call from your aunt with an earful of Italian curses? Because I only know so much, kiddo, and she gets pretty creative." 

_ Two, six, twelve, seven, help me, please. _

"No, I can't really... I'm trying to- dammit, I-I'm panicking," He groaned, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of his eyes as he yanked the blankets helplessly. The room was swimming again, gliding in and out of itself in a blur of colors, manic and uncoordinated until, 

"You at home?" 

"Yeah," Peter stammered, allowing the hot exhaustion to leak down his face, red and blotchy from missing air, "May's on the late shift t-tonight." 

Mr. Stark's voice was unbothered and confident, announcing,

"Be there in ten." 

_ One, two, in, out, one, three, five, six, help. _

\---

As it turned out, Peter didn’t lock the front door of the apartment. 

Actually, he hadn’t even _ closed _ it, opting to wedge a copy of the spanish-english dictionary in the gap and leave it be. 

Peter’s anxiety, although subsiding enough after the call for him to pull on baggy pajama pants and a t-shirt, had returned with intrusive thoughts and escalated to full hyperventilation. The self-loathing washed over him like a tidal wave, spastic nerves choking air out of him with a fury that he’d thought only the Hulk was capable of. 

At some point within the ten minutes it took for Mr. Stark to shove through the front door of the apartment with a stumble and a curse, Peter had moved to the floor, tucking his shaking knees to his chest and grabbing fistfulls of his hair. It was anger, Peter had realized, that drove him to dig his nails aggressively into his scalp, burning and _ violent_. He wanted to _ hurt_, then, to make the rush of his buzzing limbs lapse into silence. _ “Do something about it,” _ Ben had always told him, _ “If you’re stuck, then pick a thing and do it. It’s better than sitting on your thumbs.” _ Unfortunately for Peter, that thing was _ lash out. _

At first, it was towards himself, trailing scratches down his arms and refusing to reign in his super-strength, drawing blood with each resentful thought of how he should have done _ better_. He’d heal rapidly, he knew, the abrasions knitting themselves together by the time Mr. Stark surged into his bedroom. If he needed any confirmation that he was in trouble, though, it would arrive determinedly in an AC/DC shirt (standard lab wear) and decorative running shoes that wore the cheap carpet in Peter’s bedroom down thread by thread. When he heard his mentor’s voice, low and rumbling in an attempt to calm him, Peter pushed back blindly, turning his violence towards the source of the sound.

Thankfully, Mr. Stark’s reflexes were fast enough to catch Peter’s flailing limbs, gripping the boy’s wrists to stop the blows from landing on his chest where the reactor used to glow. 

“Hey- hey, it’s me,” Mr. Stark urged, “Kid, you’re safe, it’s me.” 

Peter’s breath hadn’t decided to sit still just yet, but his body’s reaction to Mr. Stark was so ridiculously trained that the warmth in his mentor’s voice and the smell of his Tom Ford cologne had him melting into the man’s hold, dropping as though his strings had been cut. 

Mr. Stark let out an inconvenienced grunt at the sudden weight in his arms, but slid next to Peter, allowing the kid some room to lean against his shoulder. If he was in his right mind, Peter would have been ecstatic at the physical contact- after all, he was a “cuddle baby” as May would coo, and Mr. Stark was rarely one for such affection. He failed to find the enthusiasm at the moment, though, especially when it was taking all of his vitality to keep his head of sweat-matted hair from nestling into his mentor’s embrace. If he minded the clinginess, Mr. Stark didn’t show it, hushing Peter softly and moving his grasp to the back of the boy’s neck, keeping him grounded as he struggled for breath.

“Slow down, Underoos, focus on counting your breath.” 

_ I’m trying, _ the boy wanted to scream, _ I am, and it’s not working _\- but Mr. Stark took one of Peter’s clammy hands and pressed it to his chest, shutting down the train of thought with a heavy sigh. 

“Here, kid, feel my heartbeat?” He nudged, and Peter would have apologized for getting rust residue from the bridge on Mr. Stark’s favorite shirt had the quiet thudding not taken away his attention. 

“Yeah,” He murmured, pushing himself to focus on the rhythm. 

Mr. Stark’s voice followed, short and commanding,  
“Great. Copy it.” 

Peter twitched, turning his watery gaze up to meet Mr. Stark. 

“What?” 

“Copy it; make yours match. C’mon, this is a hell of a lot easier than rocket science, and you can _ do _that.” 

Peter shook his head, his expression crumbling, but Mr. Stark squeezed the hand that still rested above his heart. 

“Hey, look at me- that’s it, kid. You’ve got this, no problem.” 

Peter squeezed his eyes closed, teeth digging into his lip in concentration.

_ Thud, thud, breathe, two, four, thud. _

The static of traffic outside fizzed a little less gratingly, falling away with each second. 

_ Five, six, thud, thud. _

“That’s it. You’re doing great,” Mr. Stark encouraged, “Knew you had it in you.” 

_ Thud, thud, thud. _

\---

“So, you gonna tell me what all that was about, or are you leaving me in suspense?” 

Peter grimaced at his mentor’s call from the kitchen, settling further into the scratchy couch cushions. They might have been uncomfortable, but they were familiar and _ home_, much more so than the unwelcoming floor of his bedroom that he’d been eager to escape. 

As soon as he had been steady enough to stop the heartbeat mimicking routine (which had been a hell of a lot more helpful than he’d expected, and _ since when did Mr. Stark know how to be comforting?),_ Mr. Stark had shuffled him up and out of the tiny room, pushing him to sit on the couch with the instruction to start up a movie.

They got nearly 20 minutes into “Return Of The Jedi” before Mr. Stark sniffed and announced that he was hungry- which was really just a lame excuse to jump up and snoop around the apartment.

“I thought we were watching a movie?” Peter deflected, rolling his eyes at the less-than-smooth segue into conversation. 

“_You _ were,” came the billionaire’s voice from behind Peter’s head, “I’ve seen this a million times already.”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows in offence as Mr. Stark ungracefully collapsed back into his seat with a comically large bag of pretzels. 

“Hey, so have I!” Peter insisted, reaching for the bag. Mr. Stark slapped his hand away, tucking the snacks closer to his chest. 

“Nuh-uh, only cooperative spider babies get pretzels.” 

“I’m not a baby.” Peter scowled. 

Mr. Stark snorted. 

“Right, and I slept a full 8 hours last night.” 

  
Peter huffed, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt and blinking down at his lap. 

Mr. Stark allowed a moment of silence to pass before sniffing and sitting up straighter. “What, asking nicely isn’t enough for ‘ya? Fine, either you tell me what freaked you out so bad that you asked for help- and _yeah_, that means bad, because you seem to have gotten the whole emotional-constipation tactic from your old man, here, and _ never _ask for what you need- or I call Auntie Anger and you get a speech from her about patrolling so late. Take your pick.” 

The weaseling part of Peter’s brain wanted to hide out, focus on the movie, on the lines he knew so well and the florid glow of the screen until the pressure had passed and he didn’t have to make a decision. The other part, though, and apparently the stronger one, urged him to meet his mentor’s expectant stare, tracing the worry lines around the man’s eyes and the apprehension in the thin line of his mouth.

Peter’s resolve broke, and out spilled the evening.

\---

“Hey, I’m uh- I’m looking for Mrs. Jensen- _ Tanya _ Jensen. The lady at the front desk told me to ask you about visiting hours?” Peter’s voice seemed high pitched and childish, even to him. The doctor peered at him over her clipboard, raising a manicured eyebrow in appraisal. 

“You’ve got a few hours before they’re over, but we don’t usually let minors in without an adult. You know Mrs. Jensen?” The doctor returned her attention to her clipboard, scribbling something and walking in the direction of a looking white hallway.

“Yeah- well, sort of.” Peter stumbled, tripping over his feet as he followed, “Her, uh, her daughter sent me.” 

“Look, I’m pretty busy right now, and I don’t really have time to call a nurse to escort you, so just keep to yourself and don’t touch anything, alright?” 

Peter nodded, swallowing his nerves as the doctor finished,

“Room 123, down the hall to your left. And I mean it, if you cause _ any _ trouble I’ll have your parents rushing down here faster than you can blink.” 

Peter breathed in weakly through his nose, exhaling through his mouth as he followed the doctor’s directions down the hall. 

119, 120, 122… 

Peter rocked on his toes outside the door, steeling himself to knock softly. When he didn’t get a response, he rolled his shoulders and knocked again more firmly. 

“Come in,” warbled a strained voice, femenine and cracking. 

He pushed the heavy door open with his shoulder, lowering his head and nimbly stepping into the room. 

It wasn’t a desolate sight, not really, but there was an air of antiseptic and frailty about the place that sent a shiver down his spine. The room was small, not enough to be claustrophobic, but filled with blank furniture and minimal sunlight from a single window that poured over a wooden desk against the far wall. The small cot opposite to the desk was made up neatly and bolted to the floor, something so domestically hostile that Peter felt as though he was standing in a prison. In a way, he supposed, he was. 

“Mrs. Jensen?” 

The woman herself was sat frozen in the desk’s chair, messy grey curls cascading down the back of a blue blouse. The shirt dissapeared into beige pants that trailed down to her bony ankles, dark skin stretched weary across sunspots and shaking arms. 

“Mrs. Jensen, I’m here about your daughter,” He said, pushing further into the room to catch a glimpse of the woman’s face. 

“My daughter?” She echoed vacantly, still and slow. Rounding the chair, Peter could see the resemblance between her and Bridget (who’s real name, as it turned out from the traced license plate, was Marie), in the same sunken dark eyes, full lips and rounded chin. Mrs. Jensen’s hollowed face was pressed into the exact expression Peter had witnessed on her daughter before she had dissapeared into the current, and he was forced to choke back a gasp at the sudden emotion. 

“Y-yes, your daughter. Marie.” 

Mrs. Jensen showed no recognition, finally turning her head to look at Peter. Her stare was steady but unseeing, as though she wasn’t entirely there watching him. Part of him wondered if she was with her daughter, somewhere far off- if the two were happy. 

“Marie?” Another echo. 

“She told me to tell you…” tears heated behind Peter’s eyes, and his tongue grew heavy and dry in his mouth. 

“My daughter…” Mrs. Jensen hummed, eyes dutifully watching a spot on the wall behind Peter’s head, eyelashes fluttering against wrinkled eyelids. “Is she… do I know you?” 

“No, ma’am. I’m just- I’m a friend of hers.” Peter promised, crouching to be at eye level with the woman, but her blank gaze didn’t shift back to him. 

“A friend? A friend of whose?” 

The clock above the door ticked incessantly, and Peter fought the urge to wrap his hands around its metal frame and _ squeeze_. 

“Your daughter, Ma’am, Marie. She told me to tell you,” he paused, gathering himself and clenching his trembling fists, “The moon says hello.” 

A kindly smile broke out onto Mrs. Jensen’s face, subtle and cushioned by a fragile blush on her cheeks. 

“Hello to you, too, Marie.” She whispered, as though it was a secret, and Peter closed his eyes, a tear finally escaping and drifting towards the tiled floor. 

Peter stood, casting a final glance to the woman who had turned her attention back to the open window. She was tracing a dainty finger through the air like she was trying to catch the sunlight, a wistful grin dancing through the afternoon air. 

Peter swiftly slid through the door, through the hall, into the elevator, down to the ground floor, and out the glass doors of the hospital, imagining Mr. Stark’s heartbeat under his palm the entire time. 

\---

Happy averted his gaze when Peter let out a weighted breath and settled into the backseat of the town car that had he and Tony had been waiting in curbside. Watching his boss silently wrap an arm around the kid’s shoulders, Happy turned on the radio station he’d noticed to be Peter’s favorite, and took off down Waters Place. The music over the radio (‘coincidentally’ the same type Mr. Stark often played in the lab) was loud enough to cover the conversation going on in the backseat, but nothing could have masked the thankful look Peter gave Mr. Stark, nor the utterly _ loving _ one Mr. Stark returned when the boy wasn’t looking. 


End file.
